Bachelor Pad

Dad,Tom and Jeff exist solely on a diet of Hungry Man TV dinners.

When my little sisters leave home, any semblance of order at the old house leaves with them. Dad remains meticulous about his laundry and continues to prepare scrambled eggs and sausage every Sunday morning after Mass, just as he has every Sunday of our lives. But if it's not Sunday, Dad's too tired to cook, too tired to clean, and certainly too tired to ride herd on our two youngest brothers.

Tom and Jeff

My sisters and I worry incessantly about this state of affairs. Especially about the rodents. Mice, which always pose a problem because of the field across the street, now run rampant and even pause in the middle of the kitchen to ponder whether mashed potatoes or salisbury steak sounds more appealing. The remnants of stacked Hungry Man TV containers line the counter tops like a buffet line for rodents. Dad sets traps in every corner of the house.

One weekend, Mary and Terri come home from college and invite a few old high school friends over. In the middle of their laughter and chatter, Jeff strolls through the living room in front of the visitors delicately holding at arm's length a trap with a dead mouse locked in its hinge.

"Fourth one today!" he crows.

Mary and Terri wish only to die never to be recuscitated.

Something has to be done. If Dad and the boys refuse to clean the house, clearly my sisters and I will have to do it for them. In other words, we will be guilty of enabling terribly bad behavior. But what choice do we have? Mary points out that Dad's nearly 60, and the boys don't care. It would hardly be worth it to discover mice gnawing on their three dead carcasses one nightmarish day in the distant future.

And that's how the institution of Friday Night Pizza begins. Every Friday night, the entire family troops over to Dad's house to clean. The boys vacuum, Terri and Carry dust, Deb and Mary tackle the kitchen, and I clean the bathrooms. I can hardly believe Dad's talent for stuffing seven days of newspapers and an occasional Reader's Digest into one small bathroom waste basket.

Fortunately, if we all work together, it only takes an hour to clean the old house. Then Dad springs for pizza and drinks for everybody. Friday night pizza is a tradition that continues for many years and is destined to become our favorite night of the week.

Truthfully, my sisters and I would like nothing more than to overhaul the entire bachelor pad. Short of moving back in, however, we don't have much influence over the day to day lives of Dad and our little brothers. The most exasperating issue, Dad confides, is persuading Jeff to get out of bed for school.

"Jeff!" Dad hollers every morning, "For the last time, get up!"

Jeff's always been notorious for sleeping past the alarm. My sisters have sometimes dragged him out of bed and shoved him, half asleep, into the bathroom. For the first time in his life, however, Jeff is reveling in the freedom of a household devoid of females. 

"Yes, Mother Dearest," he whines sarcastically whenever Terri or Carry nags him to pick up his room or take out the garbage. But those days are now behind him. Jeff regards himself as a 14-year-old free agent, and fortunately for him, Dad makes few demands on his time. Except in the mornings.

"Jeff!" By now Dad's lost all patience. Every school day, it's the same scenario. Seething with fury, Dad will eventually be forced to lay on the horn as he and Tom wait in the running car in the driveway. It's the sound of the horn that at last rouses Jeff. He falls out of the house in various stages of undress always clutching his shoes.

On this particular morning, Dad's had enough. After five minutes of blaring the horn, a sure sign Jeff's unable to locate his shoes, Dad pulls out of the driveway.

"That's it!" he hisses. Just as he accelerates down Capital Avenue, Jeff appears half naked running toward the car. Dad drives on. Tom can hardly bear the sight of Jeff frantically sprinting after them in the middle of the street. Jeff must foot the three miles to school and doesn't arrive until 10 o'clock. After that terrible morning, however, he's much better about rising with the alarm.

Except for the drama-filled mornings, life is pretty much a breeze. Dad and my brothers toss their Hungry Man dinners into the oven and flop in front of the TV every evening. They bond over The Cosby Show, Miami Vice and even an episode or two of Dynasty.

On Sunday afternoons, Dad's only day off from the travel agency, the three of them while away the hours mesmerized by televised golf tournaments. One such afternoon, Tom - who's grown suddenly tall and feels the heady confidence of his 16 years - issues a casual challenge.

"I'm pretty sure," he muses almost to himself, "that I could drive a golf ball farther than you, Dad."

The words are barely out of his mouth before he realizes his mistake. It would never occur to any of us - indeed, it would be unthinkable - to bait our proud, zealously competitive father. Tom and Dad, however, are more than father and son. Over the last several tumultuous years, they've become relaxed friends and boon companions. Even Tom, though, hasn't thought this one through.

Ten minutes later he finds himself with Dad and Jeff at George Park a few blocks away.

"I'll out-drive you by 50 yards, Mr. Cocky," Dad throws Tom a club. "You first."

It doesn't matter if it's basketball, checkers or a card game. Dad always tries to mess with our heads. He'll do anything to win.

"Don't be nervous, Tom," Dad repeatedly clears his throat in a ruthless attempt to distract him. "I'll try not to humiliate you." Just as Tom starts his back swing, Dad breaks wind. It's a peculiar talent that never ceases to amaze us. Dan can pass gas like a thundering explosion at will - any time he chooses. He chooses now.

Tom, in a surge of teenage anger, does his best to ignore Dad and instead concentrates on Jeff who's acting as ball marker 250 yards away. Swinging with focused fervor, he blasts the golf ball. Straight as an a arrow, it arcs into the sky, sails over Jeff's head, and finally drops some 10 yards behind Jeff. Tom looks over at Dad flashing a smile of triumph.

Jeff and Dad having fun with the camera.

Decidedly feeling the pressure, Dad sets his jaw in determination and steps up to the ball. "You'd better back up another hundred yards, Jeff!" he bellows for Tom's sake.

Dad lines up, and after a moment of deliberate concentration, swings with everything he's got. The golf ball takes off and rises quickly in altitude. Tom looks on with a sinking heart. It lifts into a cloudless blue sky just like it does for the pros teeing off on television. Dad grins gleefully looking 30 years younger. In an instant, though, he's frowning. At the pinnacle of its ascent, the ball takes a sudden veer to the left in one of the worst hooks Tom's ever witnessed. Like a rocket, it changes course and swerves directly to a cluster of neighborhood homes. Homes with lots and lots of windows.

Dad wastes no time.  "Grab the clubs and get in the car," he orders. He shouts to Jeff to hurry back, and without a backward glance, the three of them hustle into the car and beat it out of the park.

It's only as they're nearing home that Dad dares to glance sheepishly at my brothers. Like guilty school boys, the three of them burst into laughter.

"Technically," Tom suggests as they pull into the driveway on Capital Avenue, "I guess you could say I did win the contest."

The laughter and good natured ribbing ends abruptly. Dad gazes back at Tom with steely blue eyes. "Maybe," Dad acknowledges. "If I'd had a good club, though, we both know I would have murdered you."

The moment is over, and Tom sighs.

Our father is back.

Family Business

Dad frets over the young saplings dotting the sidewalks of downtown Grand Island. From his office on the bottom floor of the Yancey Hotel on Second Street, he examines and waters them frequently. As one of the members of the new Downtown Improvement Committee who acquires the trees, he feels responsible when they droop in Nebraska's harsh mid-summer heat.

Carry and Dad

Dad loves his baby trees, loves downtown, and loves owning his own business - First Holiday Tour and Travel. Sometimes driving by the corner of Second and South Locust, I catch the stoplight and stare through the long windows of the Yancey willing Dad and my sisters to glance up and wave. Dad likes having his kids around so much he persuades some of us to work for him. Joe, Mick, Rick, Deb and Mary all will be employed at the travel agency at one time or another. I love watching Dad and my brothers and sisters manage the family business together. The rest of us pop in from time to time to help answer phones or fetch the mail from the post office.

By the end of the 80's, we've all left home except for Tommy and Jeff who are still in high school. Dad's feeling bereft without a house full of kids. The travel agency is his way of keeping us close. After we reach adolescence, Dad suddenly becomes awkward and finds it difficult to be physically affectionate. Mom could hug the stuffing out of us, but Dad blushes and doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands. Debbie realizes this and loves to embarrass him. After work at the travel agency, she and Dad make their way to the parking garage strolling down South Locust in the rosy twilight. Then Debbie ever so casually reaches out to grab Dad's hand and swing it a little. Sometimes she puts an arm around him or snuggles her head against his shoulder.

"Stop that!" Hugely embarrassed, Dad shakes her off, but Deb only laughs. The very next evening, she does it again. The younger kids tease Dad in a way that we older kids never would have. Dad was a different father with us - loving but stern, disciplined, exacting.

"You need to get after these kids!" I scold Dad one day when my younger siblings are all still at home. "Why don't you discipline them like you did us?"

He shrugs. "It didn't do you any good," he sighs wearily, as if Joe, Mick, Rick and I turned out to be serial ax murderers.

At the travel agency, Dad and my siblings talk and joke and grow very close. Sometimes the atmosphere is more relaxed than it should be. Mick, ever the practical joker, takes full advantage of the casual freedom that comes with a family business.

One morning, Mary arrives at the travel agency to discover the door ajar.

"Mick?" she calls. The office is dark, and Mary wonders if she neglected to lock up the night before. She steps into the office and gasps. The safe is wide open, cash is strewn all over the floor, and then she sees my brother's hand outstretched on the floor behind the counter. Paralyzed with fear, Mary can only gape at the terrible scene.

The hand moves, and Mick laughs. He rises from behind the counter and leans over it laughing helplessly at Mary's terrified expression.

Mary and Jeff

"Mick!" she screams. "How could you? That's the worst thing you've ever done to me!"

Furious and trembling, she collapses into a chair. "I thought you were dead!" she moans and buries her face in her hands.

Abruptly, she sits up. "Hey, I know," she grins. "Let's do it to Deb."

Deb's reaction is just as gratifying, and Mick and Mary howl with laughter. Wisely, they refrain from pulling the joke on Dad and clean up the office before he arrives.

Dad, though he loves office banter with his kids, is the consummate professional. Every day he arrives at the office in one of his immaculate suits, specifically purchased for his bigger-than-life frame, and a starched shirt he's carefully ironed himself the Sunday before. At precisely 7:30 he switches KRGI radio to Paul Harvey's morning broadcast, arranges his desk, and fires up the computer. First Holiday Tour and Travel is open for business.

During slow times in the office, however, even Dad relaxes. One afternoon he takes the opportunity to slip out the hall door to use the restroom.  In his absence, a customer arrives, and Mary waits on her at the long counter in the front. Dad has no idea Mary is helping a client when he steps back into the office and issues forth an endless, deafening belch so loud it fills every corner of the office. Dad, impressed with the result, chuckles in appreciation until an agonized Mary politely draws his attention to the appalled woman behind the counter.

"I'm so very sorry," Dad reddens deeply, ducks his head, and hurries to his desk.

Poor Mary is the victim of most practical jokes in the office. Since the time she was little, my brothers have relentlessly targeted her trusting, innocent nature.

"Mary," Joe calls across the office, "you're supposed to return a call to Myra at Livingston Sondermann."

Livingston Sondermann is a local Grand Island funeral home, and Joe repeats the number to Mary.

"What's her last name?" Mary checks with Joe as the phone rings.

Clowning, Rick tries on his new Christmas sweater.

"Mains," Joe says.

Mary falls for it hook, line and sinker. "This is Mary from First Holiday," she says in her most business-like voice. "May I speak to Myra Mains?"

She hears it as soon as she says it and immediately bangs down the receiver to glare at Joe who is enjoying his joke immensely.

"Did you actually ask for My Remains?" he pretends to be shocked.

"I hate you," she snarls. But in the end, she always laughs. Nobody takes a joke better than Mary.

The travel agency becomes a family gathering spot of sorts. If we have an itch to see each other on the spur of the moment, we simply jump in the car and head over to the office. There's always a cup of coffee, Dad's face lights up with his big grin, Deb and Mary fill us in on the gossip, and Mick entertains us.

In the party room a floor above the office, we celebrate family birthdays. Rick never ceases to surprise me at these gatherings. Even more sentimental than my sisters and I, he reaches across Dad's awkward hug barrier and grabs our big father before he departs.

"I love you, Dad!" he says almost jokingly. But he means it. A very young man, Rick experiences deep regret that he never told Mom what she meant to him. He refuses to make the same mistake with Dad.

Rick's hugs embarrass Dad, of course, but he seems to like it. It gives us all a little courage to reach out and pat our huge father on the shoulder or land a quick peck on his cheek. I long to throw my arms around him to lock him in a proper embrace, but that would be altogether too much for Dad's sense of propriety.

The travel agency office on the bottom floor of the historic, stately Yancey Hotel becomes an unlikely second home to all of us. In the years after Mom's death, it's almost a symbol of new starts. Life goes on, and we are managing together. Who would ever have thought all those years ago when Dad and Mom crammed us into the old brown station wagon dragging us from Denver to Grand Island that the corner of Second and Locust Streets would become so dear?

It was a long time ago. Today I am past 60 but have gone out of my way to drive by the long empty old travel agency and stop at that same corner with nostalgic yearning. I miss seeing Dad through the long windows of the Yancey. But he'd be happy about his tiny saplings. They're fine, respectable shade trees now nourished by the good Nebraska soil.

Mom and Dad are part of that good Nebraska earth, too, and the ten children they brought to Grand Island 45 years ago have grown and flourished like the trees.

If I look hard through the long windows of the now vacant office, I can see my sisters tending the phones and Mick laughing with a customer. Dad stretches his long legs and folds his arms behind his big, impressive head. With deep satisfaction, he surveys his little kingdom.

The stoplight is green. I sigh deeply and drive on. It was all a life time ago.

But it seems as close as yesterday.

Tool Man

The way Dad snores - like a gasping, shuddering chain saw - could wake the dead.

Because he's lonely for our mother sleeping beside him, Dad purchases a small television set for his bedroom to keep him company. Every night he turns up Johnny Carson to an ear splitting decible, guffaws for ten minutes, then promptly falls asleep. So it begins - a dueling cacophony between Carson's banter and Dad's snoring.

"I can't stand it any more!" Terri stomps into Dad's room, violently switches the t.v. off, and curses all the way back to bed.

Terri

None of my younger brothers and sisters can sleep through the racket. It's Carry who comes up with the idea of the "Clapper", a sound activated marvel. The little kids pool their money together and present it to Dad for his birthday.

"Before you fall asleep," Carry explains to our father, "remember to clap. The t.v.'ll go right off!" A remote would be just as easy and far cheaper, but Dad misplaces it the day after he purchases the television.

He's skeptical of the Clapper but agrees to give it a try. It turns out to be a waste of money. As soon as Dad snores, the t.v. surges to life again. Another snore, and it shuts off. And so it goes. On and off, on and off all night long. Terri stomps into his room, rips the device out of the wall, and stuffs it in the trash.

So much for the "Clapper".

It's not only the little kids' sleep life that disintegrates. The old order ceases to exist, and a new one is born. Without Mom's careful watch, things begin to slip on Capital Avenue.

My brothers and sisters divvy up the chores, but a spotless house is hardly a priority. One night, long after they're in bed asleep, Dad charges into their bedrooms, wakes them all up, and herds them into the hallway bathroom.

Scooping up one of several damp towels from the bathroom floor, he illustrates in exaggerated motions the proper way to fold it over the towel rack.

"VOILA!" he barks, gesturing toward the rack as if my siblings are mentally deficient.

The next Sunday after Mass, with everybody in the station wagon, Dad drives to a dilapidated old house some blocks away. A rusty refrigerator leans against the front porch and beside it an ancient, moth-eaten sofa. Dad pulls straight into the strange driveway as if he owns the place. Lounging on the dusty old sofa in the warm sunshine are the true owners of the hovel who glance with lazy curiosity at the vehicle idling in their driveway.

"Dad, what are you doing?" Mary gasps. My little brothers and sisters duck hurriedly beneath the car windows, horrified by Dad's audacity.

"Take a good look, kids," Dad ignores their dismay. "It starts with a few damp towels, and it ends like this. Brick by brick."

Dad talks a good game. All the years we grow up he chants his daily mantra - "Look around, see what needs to be done, and do it." But Dad's never lived up to his own credo. When the coffee table breaks, the cabinet doors come unhinged, or the doorknobs fall off, Dad seethes. He doesn't, however, put anything back together again. Maybe he's tired. Maybe he's overwhelmed. But the house really is falling apart brick by brick.

Jeff and Joe

When the channel turner from the television disappears, we fit the prongs of a fork across the stem and spin the handle of the fork. And since it's too much trouble to run constantly from the t.v. room to the kitchen, the fork becomes a permanent fixture on the t.v.

The entire t.v. room, in fact, is a death trap.The four legs of the coffee table have been broken for two years since Mom died. It never occurs to Dad to grab a hammer and reattach them. Instead, he instructs the little kids to prop the table up on four broken legs and never use it again. It's a battered, scratched old table, so it's not as if Dad's saving it for its aesthetic value. Not one of us ever questions why we balance that coffee table on four broken legs only to carefully skirt around it. We're used to it. It's the Dick Brown way.

Once, when Grandma comes to visit, she carefully reaches over to set her glass of iced tea on the old coffee table.

"DON'T TOUCH THE TABLE!" we all scream in unison.

Poor Grandma, badly shocked, jerks violently and accidentally kicks the table, whereupon the whole thing collapses anyway.

Then there's the door to the t.v. room itself. The latch is broken, and if you close the door from inside the room, you're locked in.

"Hurry up, Kids!" Dad calls for us from every part of the house. "It's World Premier Night!" I never understand what a World Premier is, but when one appears on television, Dad likes to be surrounded by all ten of us. Huddled together and staring with glazed eyes at the television set is what constitutes for us quality family bonding time. Inevitably, though, somebody accidentally knocks the door shut, and we're all trapped in the t.v. room.

"Dammit!" Dad swears. "Why can't you kids leave that door alone?"

Terri, Tommy and Jeff

The only way out is to remove the screen from the window, lower one of the little kids outside, and wait for him to run around the house to unlock the t.v. room door, which fortunately can be opened from the other side.

One summer evening, somebody shuts the t.v. room door, but all the outside doors are locked. We're not only locked in the t.v. room but out of our house. Resigned, we sing "I Had a Dream, Dear", Dad's old favorite, and practice in four part harmony until Rick comes home with his keys to free us.

Mary's boyfriend Kenny can't get over the t.v. room door.  "You realize you can get a new door knob, don't you?" he asks in bewilderment.

"Oh no," Mary's shocked. "Dad says that doorknob can never be fixed. It's the only one of its kind."

Kenny shakes his head.

The kitchen is almost as bad as the t.v. room. Almost every cabinet door has fallen off its hinges. But Dad never troubles himself to buy new hinges. Fitting the doors carefully back into their cabinet slots, he warns, "Be careful when you open those, Kids."

It's bad if you forget the kitchen cabinet over the sink. But after it falls on your head three or four times, you remember. Eventually, we become practiced at removing a cabinet door with one hand and grabbing a drinking glass with the other.

One day, after the little kids grow up and leave home, Dad will decide to move from the house on Capital Avenue. But by God, he hates to see the old homestead belong to anybody but a member of the family. When Dad convinces Mary's nice boyfriend Kenny, now her husband Kenny, to buy the house on Capital Avenue, we're all relieved. Everybody, that is, except Mary.

She can hardly believe Kenny wants anything to do with our old wreck of a home. Unlike Dad, however, Kenny is handy. He fixes the hinges on all the kitchen cabinets and even, to Mary's astonishment, replaces the doorknob on the t.v. room door. But Mary will not agree to sign a contract until Dad calls a plumber for the toilet.

"There's nothing wrong with that toilet!" Dad is indignant.

"Dad,", Mary sighs, "it never stops running."

He sputters. "It's a little temperamental, that's all!"

He explains in careful detail that Mary needs only to hold the handle down after she flushes, count to ten, and jiggle it three times.  "Wait until the tank fills halfway. If that doesn't work, reach into the tank, grab the chain, and yank. You could just take the lid off the tank and leave it open," Dad rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Might make it easier in the long run."

Mary rolls her eyes and stalks out of the room.

But the rest of us are glad that Ken and Mary will live there. Our memories of Mom are all wrapped up in the old house on Capital Avenue. We'll bring our own children there, barbecue in the big back yard, and celebrate family birthdays.

And nobody will get locked in the t.v. room or have to crawl out the window ever again.

Omaha

Tommy, my ten-year-old brother, has a girlfriend.

He's far too young, of course, and I would heartily disapprove of such a thing except the rest of my siblings neglect to tell me. In fact, I'm in the dark about quite a lot now that my younger brothers and sisters have all moved to Omaha. Dad, working ten hours a day at the dairy, is oblivious as well and only relieved that Tommy's made a friend. What Dad doesn't know, my younger sisters figure, can't hurt him. And anyway, Tommy's girlfriend Stacy is hardly a real girlfriend. More than anything, my sisters agree, she's a little girl who enjoys her power.

Carry and Deb

"Somebody needs to boss Tommy around," Carry shrugs.

Stacy is the tall, beautiful daughter of the African American couple down the street. Growing up in Grand Island, my siblings have never been acquainted with anyone who's African American. In the new Omaha neighborhood, however, their friends include not only Stacy but also several kids who are Jewish, one girl who is disabled and held upright with a sturdy back brace, and a pleasant 12-year-old boy named Jeff who wears makeup and loves fashion trends. Our huge Catholic family - the kids without a mother - only serve to add a little more diversity to the already eclectic neighborhood.

Jeff and Carry hit it off right away, and soon Carry, nearly 12, confides all her secrets - mostly because she thinks her new friend is a girl.

"His name is Jeff," my sister Terri breaks the news. "You DO know he's a boy, right?"

Shocked to the core, Carry takes time to digest this information. Soon, though, she resumes her friendship with Jeff taking particular care to call him by his correct name and listening closely to his instructions for applying a tricky eye liner. He becomes her best friend in the new neighborhood.

Meanwhile, my shy and innocent little brother Tommy meets Stacy at school. Loud and exuberant, Stacy dominates St. Robert's fifth grade class and, recognizing Tommy from the neighborhood, immediately claims him as her own.

"This year," she looks him up and down appraisingly, "you're gonna be my man."

Tommy blinks. He is both fascinated and afraid of this beautiful girl.

"Okay," he agrees uncertainly.

Stacy invites herself to dinner to see if she approves of her new man's family. Taking charge of the table conversation, she orders Tommy around and offers her blunt critique of the spaghetti dinner. She pauses, however, in mid diatribe to stare at Terri who's relishing with particular fervor the large helping of spaghetti in her mouth.

"Damn!" Stacy crows. "Look at those jaws move!"

Even Dad is a little frightened. "Who is this girl?" he whispers to Mary behind his hand.

Tommy, however, gazes adoringly at his beautiful new girlfriend and believes himself to be the luckiest boy in the world. But in the coming weeks, Stacy's orchestration of his every move wears thin. One night at the skating rink, he politely informs Stacy that he wants to break up.

"Break up!" She shrieks the words over the laughter and chatter of other skaters and lets loose with a string of expletives. Tommy's face burns with embarrassment. "You're my man," she pokes a finger painfully into his chest, "for as long as I say you're my man."

She skates off in a huff.

The truth is, Tommy has too many worries to juggle a bossy girlfriend. The move to Omaha has been traumatic for him and all my siblings.

Debbie, who's only just graduated from high school, accompanies the family to Omaha to help out. Dad purchases a much used Chevy Nova which Debbie uses to deliver Mary, Terri, Carry, Tommy and Jeff to school. Deb has never driven in Omaha, and the harrowing morning traffic intimidates her. She and Mary, however, attempt a dry run the day before school starts until Deb feels confident.

The next morning after Dad leaves for work and wishes all my brothers and sisters good luck, Deb herds everybody out to the Nova only to discover she's locked the keys in the house.

"Debbie!" my panic stricken sisters wail. In the end, it seems there's nothing to do but camp out on the front lawn all day until Dad returns home from work that evening.  But missing the first day at their new schools unnerves my siblings, especially Mary and Terri.

"Why did we have to move here?" Terri agonizes. Mom would have known what to do. They ache for her and Grand Island and their old schools and for all that is comfortingly familiar.

Terri's already taken great pains to study the St. Robert's catalog to make sure she's wearing the school uniform exactly the way every other girl wears it. At 13, she's particularly nervous about fitting in at her new school. But the next morning, after Dad decides to escort the little kids to their second first day of school himself, Terri bursts into tears. Wearing her knee length uniform skirt and long socks, she's horrified to discover every other girl in her new school boasts a mid-thigh skirt and bobby socks.

"Dad!" she bursts into tears. "I look all wrong!"

As far as Dad can see, Terri's dressed exactly the same as all the other hundreds of other little girls chatting self-consciously at their lockers. But Terri's desperation is heartbreaking.

"Hey, hey!" he grabs her close. "I promise - after school we'll go to Target and get it right!"

Terri has another major concern entering her eighth grade year. She's started her period. Mom isn't here any more, and she's desperate to tell Dad. But she doesn't know how.

"Dad," she hesitates before concluding at a gallop. "I guess I've become a woman!"

Terri, Tommy and Jeff

It takes a moment for Dad to understand. "Terri," he hugs her. Mom's always handled the girl stuff. "Congratulations," he awkwardly pats her back. "We'll get whatever you need for that at the store, too," he reddens.

The move to Omaha is a struggle for everybody. My sister Mary's sole passion is athletics. To discover she's too late to try out for the Marian volleyball team is a terrible blow. On top of that, she's gone from her intimate Grand Island Central Catholic class of 50 kids to 300 in this all girls' school without any outlet or activity to help her make friends.

Jeff, in the third grade, struggles more than anybody. Dad believes it's critical right now that Jeff be as close as possible to his brother and sisters at St. Robert's. Jeff, however, has always received help for his disability and misses his gifted special ed teachers back at Grand Island Public. He falls further and further behind, but he's hardly the only one. Tommy and Carry are baffled as well. The terrible combination of Mom's death, leaving their home, and starting at a brand new school is too much.

As their school work suffers, teachers send their failing papers home with them. Dad's required to look at their school work, sign his name, and send it back. My brothers and sisters, however, make sure Dad never sees anything. Carefully, they forge his signature on every paper. It'll be weeks before teachers figure it out and inform Dad with a phone call.

In the meantime, Carry gets into trouble in the school cafeteria when she inserts a drinking straw through the middle of a hot dog wiener from one end to the other. Then she pours milk through the straw.

"Look!" she giggles at her lunch table. "The wiener's peeing!" The kids laugh so raucously that the teacher is alerted and immediately yanks Carry to the office.

Dad's shocked to discover his kids are forging his name, and he grounds Carry for the cafeteria incident. One afternoon at the kitchen table he sighs heavily and drops his face into his hands. Dad's lost his wife, he's raising ten kids alone, and his business has transferred him to another city with the order to resurrect a sinking dairy. My sister Mary sits across from my exhausted father and realizes not only that he's enormously overwhelmed but that my little brothers and sisters are in trouble.

Dad snoozes after a long day at work.

Every night she prays and cries in her bed. "Dear God," she whispers earnestly in the dark, "you've got to get us back to Grand Island! Please help us, Mom."

Help comes, but not in the way Mary hopes.

One evening as Debbie and Mary prepare dinner, they hear Dad drive into the garage. Strangely, he doesn't stride through the door grinning and sniffing the good smells of food in the air like he usually does.

Puzzled, they glance through the window and are shocked to see our giant of a father sitting on the steps by the door, hands hanging between his knees, crying his eyes out. By this time, all my brothers and sisters are rooted at the window staring at Dad. Never in their lives have they seen him weep like this. Even when Mom died, he wept softly and silently. Now, unaware of all of them watching from the window, Dad's big, broad shoulders heave in great, helpless sobs.

Frightened, Deb, Mary, Terri, Carry, Tommy and Jeff turn away and wait for him to pull himself together. It would horrify him to know they've seen him like this.

After a long time, he finally enters the house composed and dignified.

"Hi Dad," they try to greet him naturally.

"Kids," he says wearily. "Sit down. I need to talk to you."

The dairy, he tells them at last, has been bought out by another company who's decided to clean house. He and all his employees can no longer work there. He's out of a job.

"Don't worry," he tries to reassure them. "We'll figure this out."

Mary's heart breaks for Dad, but my 16-year-old sister understands her prayers have been answered. There is no doubt in her mind they will all return to Grand Island.

And they do.

After weeks of job searching and terrible worry, Dad buys into a Grand Island travel agency - First Holiday Tour and Travel - which my brother Mick still owns and operates today. They all move back into the house on West Capital Avenue, and my brothers and sisters return to their old schools.

My brothers Joe, Mick and Rick, in college or working in Grand Island, are overjoyed to have our youngest siblings back. I'm overjoyed to teach my little sisters at Central Catholic again. Dad's overjoyed to manage his own business and to see his children thriving and happy again.

And Tommy's overjoyed to be turning 11-years-old as a free man. Had Dad not lost his job, Tommy knows with cold certainty, he might very well be picking out China patterns with the indomitable Stacy.

First Christmas

Grandma, like the rest of us, dreads Christmas this year. She's already lost my grandfather. To lose Mom, her one and only child, is nearly unbearable.

Last April, when the doctor tells us Mom has only 24 hours, I collect Grandma from Beatrice, the little town in which she's resided most of her life, and drive her to Grand Island to say goodbye to Mom. We say almost nothing during the three hour trip to the hospital. I worry it will all be too much for my tall, striking grandmother who's not only diabetic but suffers from an ailing heart.

At the hospital, Mom wakes briefly, sees Grandma, and smiles. "Hi, Mama!" she chirps like a ten-year-old before instantly falling back into unconsciousness.

Grandma stops still then staggers and grabs the rail of the hospital bed. Concentrating very hard on something just outside the window, she pleads without looking at me. "You have to take me home."

So we drive all the way back to Beatrice.

"Goodbye, Grandma," I sob when I drop her off at her house. We cling to each other. The next time I see her, Mom will be gone.

Backing out onto the street, I watch her climb the stairs of her porch. Every step is a monumental effort, and she appears all at once decades older than her 72 years.

But now it is Christmas.

Nothing about it resembles last year. Dad's been commuting to Omaha for his new job during Mom's illness. After her death, we clean up the house, put it up for sale, and Dad and my youngest brothers and sisters move to Omaha in August. Joe and Rick are finishing school at Kearney State, Mick remains behind in Grand Island to work, and I move into a small efficiency apartment in Grand Island to get ready for my second year of teaching at Central Catholic. It's the first time I've ever lived on my own, and I miss Dad and my siblings in the very worst way.

Christmas caroling. From left: Carry, Tommy, Mary, Jeff, Terri and Deb

It's the little kids, however, who really struggle to adjust to their new lives. Dad enrolls them in their new schools. Coping with all the bewildering changes without Mom and her tender assurances makes it enormously difficult.

Thankfully, we are all together under one roof for Christmas. The new house in Omaha is a big split level that boasts a deep carpeted pit in front of the fireplace with room for all of us to sit. I sail into Beatrice in my little Pacer to pick up Grandma, and we arrive in Omaha two days before Christmas just shortly before my brothers Joe, Mick and Rick do.

"Your dad needs a wonderful gift," Grandma thinks aloud the next day after Dad departs for work. "It's Christmas Eve, and that poor man's been through the ringer."

The stress of losing his wife, becoming a single parent to ten children, and trying to save the dairy in Omaha has taken its toll on Dad. To top it all off, he's fighting off a bug which instantly alarms us.

"I'm fine!" he assures us before he leaves for work. "Stop worrying!"

Fiercely protective of our overworked father, we observe him closely. Deb and Mary fear he doesn't get enough rest. That's when we decide to pool our money together to buy him a waterbed for Christmas. Dad's always wanted one, and a local store in Omaha advertises a Christmas special - waterbeds for 199 dollars. Together, we come up with nearly 150, and Grandma offers to chip in the rest.

With no time to waste, we pile into my Pacer and hurry to the store.

"Sorry," the man at the store shakes his head. "That price is for a queen size only. The king is a hundred bucks more."

Crestfallen, we drag ourselves back to the car. Without question, our 6 foot, 7 inch father requires a king size bed.

"I could sell my plasma," Tommy suggests hopefully. "I saw a sign."

But it's not necessary for my ten-year-old brother to part with his blood. Grandma comes through.

"Let's go back to the store and buy that bed," she says determinedly.

It's shameless the way I zip the car around to take complete advantage of my wonderful grandmother's generosity.

"We'll expect you to bring that bed to the house today and set it up for us," she wags her finger at the waterbed man. Our sweeter than syrup grandmother can be formidable when she chooses.

"Yes, ma'am," the man nods obediently.

We can hardly wait for Dad to come home. Because it's Christmas Eve, he arrives earlier than usual, and we frantically make up the bed as soon as the waterbed guys depart.

"Merry Christmas, Dad!" we shout and laugh when he walks into his room and sees the new bed.

In his suit and tie, Dad stops dead in his tracks and stares at the new waterbed. Then a big slow grin creases his face. "What have you kids done?" he laughs.

Dad loves his new waterbed so much he won't even wait for it to warm up. Spreading a mountain of blankets over the top, he crawls onto the mattress, flops on his back, and growls in contentment as his body undulates with the gentle waves.

Jeff receives a much longed for Raggedy Andy for Christmas.

Even though Dad's waterbed is a huge hit, we fear that Christmas itself will be unutterably sad. The move to Omaha, however, in spite of its tribulations, somehow makes it better. If we have to celebrate without Mom, it's easier to do it in a new house that holds no painful memories of her laughter and warm presence.

Nevertheless, we uphold the yearly traditions. On top of Mom's piano, Mary and Baby Jesus are still guarded protectively by Joseph who's been headless for many years - since the time Tommy and Jeff played catch with him in the living room and Harry the Dog pounced to gnaw his head off.

The little kids draw each other's names and present each other with the same giant candy canes, giant suckers and books of Lifesaver candies which they will suck continuously all Christmas day and night.

The last gift to be opened is Uncle Carl's big box from Pittsburgh with the standard gift of stale peanut butter balls he prepares months and months beforehand and a fruitcake that will be crammed far back into the freezer until we discover its rock hard remains the following Christmas.

Christmas dinner is the big challenge. Mom was never known for her culinary skills, but she always insisted on mashed potatoes. Deb, Mary and I try, but our potatoes are a sodden, lumpy, milky mess. Finally, Dad hands us a box of instant mashed potatoes.

"New tradition," he says. They don't taste like Mom's, but they're not half bad.

We set the table with mismatched silverware and Mom's Christmas candles burned to nubs because nobody's thought to buy new ones this year. Dad brings out the turkey, and we fall silent to say grace. It's the only time emotion threatens to overwhelm us. We soldier through, however, and at the end, Grandma breathes tearfully, "Dear God, thank you for watching out for all of us this past year, and thank you for taking care of Patti."

We stare painfully at the table.

"No problem, Marge." Mary, clowning in a comically deep voice, saves the moment. Even Grandma laughs.

This first Christmas isn't great. But it's okay. We survive, and we'll remember it for its own special flavor.

Christmas 1979 will be the year that Tommy was willing to sell his blood for Dad's Christmas present. The year that we made instant mashed potatoes for Christmas dinner. The year that Grandma nearly fell into the pit in front of the fireplace. And the Christmas that Dad finally got his waterbed.

It was the first Christmas without Mom.

But thankfully, because we were all together, Christmas 1979 wasn't bad at all.

After Mom

At the church dinner after Mom's funeral, a nice lady from our neighborhood leans close to place a sympathetic hand on my arm.

"God needed your lovely mother more than you did," she shakes her head sadly. She is kind and well intentioned and doesn't realize what she's saying. I thank her for coming but then tactfully turn away to find my family.

God needs Mom more than my little brothers and sisters do?

From left: Mary, Carry, Rick, Terri, Tommy and Jeff

I don't understand which prayers God decides to answer or not answer. If a single good reason exists for God taking Mom, I can't think what it would be. Maybe God has nothing to do with it at all. Maybe he allows all our lives to simply march along - appalled as the rest of us when tragic events knock us sprawling to the ground.

In the early morning hours right after Mom dies, we return from the hospital. Dad gently wakes the little kids to break the terrible news that Mom is gone. Even though it's 2 o'clock in the morning, good Father Kurtenbach comes to be with us. My little brothers and sisters lean close to Dad on the living room couch while Joe, Mick, Rick and I sprawl on the floor. Harry, Mom's little mutt of a dog, climbs on my legs, circles twice and plops on my lap. The weight of his warm little body comforts me, and I wonder if poor Harry is as bewildered as the rest of us.

Long after Father Kurtenbach has departed, we lie in our rooms in the dark. I know my brothers and sisters are awake because I hear soft sniffles and occasional choking sobs.

In an instant, however, we all bolt up in bed. Harry the dog abruptly screams in the darkness. It's the only way any of us can describe it later. If a dog can scream, Harry does.

Curled up and asleep in Mom's recliner in the tv room, his favorite sleeping spot, he suddenly screams and flies through the house from one end to the other yelping in utter terror. At first we're too terrified to move, but in a second we're on our feet bumping into each other in the dark and scrambling to Dad's room. Rick flicks on the light, and the little kids leap into bed to frantically slide themselves under the covers next to Dad.

Harry hides under Dad's bed. My brother finds him and yanks him out. With the light on and all of us together, I tell myself there is a rational explanation for Harry's sudden and disturbing behavior.

"What's wrong with him?" Dad barks. The little kids cower next to him.

Harry shakes violently. He attempts to come when I call him, but his hind legs, weak with fright, collapse beneath him. My brother and I take turns consoling and hugging him then carefully check his paws for stickers or other injuries.

But there's nothing wrong with Harry except that he's scared to death. As soon as we release him, he crawls trembling back under the bed and refuses to come out. We all stare at each other with wide, frightened eyes. Every one of us thinks the same thing.

"It's all right now, kids," Dad says. "Everybody go back to bed."

It will be many weeks before we speak of the terrible night Harry the Dog screamed in the dark after Mom died. However, not long after that, Harry disappears. Carry and our small brothers Tommy and Jeff scour the neighborhood for days. But Harry is never found and never comes back.

Tommy flings himself on the couch after an extensive and fruitless search. "I think Harry went to find Mom," he cries disconsolately.

It would make sense. Harry adored Mom.

"Or maybe," Tommy wipes his eyes, "Mom came to find Harry."

When we are finally able to speak of Harry's bizarre behavior the night Mom died, even the little kids suspect Mom came home to say goodbye. Harry must have seen her, we decide.

"But did she have to scare us to death?" I wonder aloud. Dad says it would be just like Mom to have one more laugh before she went.

We will never know exactly what happened that trauma-filled night. Perhaps it was all coincidental and Harry merely had a horrible nightmare. Whatever happened in those early morning hours, Harry's terrible fright strangely helps to propel us through our grief. Mom is somewhere, we conclude. We hope it's wonderful and that she's not worried about us. Well, maybe a little worried. We hope that she's once more her happy, healthy, funny, quirky self. Most of all, we dare to hope we will see her again.

One May night a month or so later, just before school is out for the summer, a beautiful starry night beckons us outdoors. Joe and Rick have long ago returned to Kearney State for their finals, and Dad must finally go back to his job in Omaha but promises to come back in time for Deb's high school graduation. For the first time in our lives, it's just us without either Mom or Dad.

The night is too warm and inviting to waste, and none of us feels like going to bed. I am the oldest - a school teacher, for pete's sake - and should know better. Nevertheless, we all drift outside into the front yard. The little kids run and laugh. Carry turns cartwheels and Terri chases Tommy and Jeff under the light of a full moon. For the first time in months, my little brothers and sisters romp without a care like small wild animals. We sing and tell jokes and finally sprawl on blankets in the grass to look up at the stars.

Lounging in the mild warmth of approaching summer, we quite suddenly dare to be happy. Deb and Mary give ridiculous names to the constellations and search for planets.

"I'm trying to find Uranus," Deb giggles. "Get it?"

We lie close to one another, and the nearness of my brothers and sisters is a comfort I have never appreciated so much.

"Maybe Mom's up there looking down at us right now," Jeff yawns sleepily. It's almost 11 and very late for my seven-year-old baby brother.

We fall silent staring at the starlit sky feeling close to Mom and God and whatever it is that constitutes eternity. Jeff sighs and nestles close to Mary who draws him close.

"Maybe she is," I say.

It would be nice to think Mom hovers close above in the warm night sky watching over her kids.

Maybe Heaven is much closer than any of us realizes. In that moment, huddled together on a blanket under the sky, we feel without a doubt that Mom is near with the devoted Harry close at her heel.

And that one day, we will most certainly see them both again.

Last Days

We nearly make it to the cash register when Mom realizes she's forgotten the coupon for a Christmas turkey.

"Oh, nuts," she groans. The two of us have been standing in line forever. Skagway is packed to the gills with holiday shoppers. We're tired and cranky. Then Mom spies a frail, elderly gentleman two aisles away clutching a precious turkey coupon in one hand and wielding a cannister of oxygen in the other.

She whispers to me. "If you're very, very nice to that old man, I bet he'd give you his coupon." 

Preparing the Christmas turkey - Mom's last Christmas.

I stare at her. "You've got to be kidding."

She cocks an eyebrow. "Oh c'mon. How do you think I met my husband?"

We laugh so hard we cry. Mom leans on me, and I lean on the grocery cart, our knees weak with laughter. Nearby shoppers smile in sympathy. 

It feels good to laugh. 

Almost two years after her diagnosis, Mom's cancer spreads to her spine. It's a devastating blow. And the timing couldn't be worse. Dad's business has transferred him to Omaha to save the sinking Robert's Dairy. Because of Mom's illness, there's no question of moving Mom and my little brothers and sisters. Dad commutes back and forth from Omaha to Grand Island. He leaves at 4 a.m. Monday morning for Omaha, lives in a motel all week, then drives back to Grand Island Friday evening. 

Just graduated from college and employed by my old high school, Central Catholic, I am grateful to be home and near Mom and my siblings. 

This Christmas, we are a family in denial. None of us, not even Dad, will speak aloud of our fear that Mom may leave us soon. Instead, we joyfully decorate the tree and observe every tradition just as if this Christmas is like any other. After Mass, we tumble into the living room around the tree. Since I'm the oldest, I read aloud the wondrous story of the Nativity from the Bible, and we sing "Silent Night" then "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" because it's Terri, Carry, Tommy and Jeff's favorite. The eyes of the little kids shine with excitement. Mom is determined that this should be a happy Christmas.

Nevertheless, reality hits with a bleak thud right after the New Year. Mom's cancer grows with a vengeance. She's hospitalized twice and returns home weakened and pale. Getting out of her recliner or bed is such an ordeal that my brothers and sisters each take turns staying home from school to care for her.

Terri, Tommy and Carry

One day in fifth grade, Carry, who is 11, suddenly lowers her head onto her desk and begins to sob. Her kind teacher at Engleman Elementary gathers my little sister into her arms and ushers her out to the hallway.

During one of Mom's hospitalizations, I find seven-year-old Jeff in Mom and Dad's bed hugging Mom's pillow and weeping.

Deb and Mary, only teenagers, take over the cooking and the laundry. Terri and Tommy rub Mom's sore back, and Joe, Mick and Rick - my tall, handsome brothers - sit close to Mom talking softly and sometimes teasing her to make her laugh.

One night when Mom is struggling terribly, I crawl into bed with her to administer her medicine and massage her sore back. When at last she dozes fitfully, I wrap my arms around her. Maybe, I think, if I hold her tightly, I can keep her with us forever.

Pain jolts her awake, and she moans and sobs in agony. The pills don't work any more. Desperate, I half carry her to my little car and drive her to the hospital.

"Dad?" I call my father as soon as the nurses wheel Mom off. "I think you need to come home."

He walks through our door that very night. My brothers and sisters and I are weak with relief to see him. For the first time in his life, he doesn't worry about the dairy or what will happen if he's not behind his desk. Day in and day out, he sits with Mom, and we all take comfort in his bigger-than-life presence. Dad can fix anything, we tell ourselves. But he can't fix this.

Time stops still at our house. Mom fails noticeably every day. Easter Sunday arrives, and we barely remember to arrange baskets for the little kids.  Early Monday morning, Dad calls the doctor himself and after a long time comes to us with red rimmed eyes. "It's time to tell Mom goodbye," he chokes.

It's the day after Easter, a beautiful afternoon in April. Birds sing gloriously outside the open windows. But we are mutely staring at the floor. My four little brothers and sisters crawl into Dad's lap clutching him and sobbing. My own hot tears drip onto the carpet, and I want to throw a brick at those freaking birds.

Aunt Patty and MaryLee, Dad's sister and cousin, both arrive from Colorado - two wonderful women who have loved us all our lives. At the hospital, we all file quietly into my mother's room. Father Harold Kurtenbach, our parish pastor, arrives at the same time we do and quietly consoles us.

"Patti?" Dad whispers to Mom who has been semi-conscious for the last several hours. "Look who's here!"

She opens her eyes in confusion to see Father Kurtenbach's kind face leaning above her.

"Do you know who I am, Patti?" he asks softly.

She blinks. "The Easter Bunny?"

Father Kurtenbach laughs and warmly clasps her hand. Struggling, she gazes up foggily until she recognizes him.

"Am I going to die?" she whispers.

She asks it like a little child. Dad and all of us are caught off guard. Not one time have we ever talked to Mom or each other about her impending death. It hurts me now to think how much Mom needed to talk about the end of her life.

"Are you afraid to die, Patti?" Father Kurtenbach says gently.

Almost imperceptibly, she shakes her head. "No," she says. Her gaze fades, and she falls asleep.

It's the last time Mom ever speaks. After that, she lapses into an enduring unconsciousness. All around her bed are cards and flowers from neighbors and close friends. A magnificent Easter lily fills the room with one stubborn blossom that refuses to open. I stare dully at it. The Easter message of resurrection fails to rouse my hope while Mom lies pale and silent.

It grows late, and Dad orders the little kids home. Mom's good friend, Sue Wisnieski, assures us she will go with them and get them to bed. The rest of us stay. Wonderful Father Kurtenbach refuses to leave us. He chats softly with Dad and Aunt Patty and MaryLee.

My brothers and sisters and I sit quietly. Once in a while, when Mom grows agitated, I brush her hair. It always quiets her. But now, she becomes unusually restless, and the adults in the room are instantly attentive. Mom shudders with a deep breath, and suddenly we are all on our feet surrounding her bed. I have never watched anybody die. That the first person I will watch leave this world is my sweet mother takes my breath away.

A nurse slips into the room and makes a quick assessment. "There's nothing else we can do," she tells Dad.

Mom's breathing grows shallow. Suddenly, she releases a tremendous gasp and seems to stop breathing. We think she is gone until her eyes fly open and she looks for Dad. He reaches over to close her eyes, but she instantly opens them again and stares intently at him. Dad takes Mom's hand, and the two of them gaze at each other for a long, long time until Mom gasps again. Finally she closes her eyes for the last time and is gone.

"Goodbye, Patti," Dad sighs raggedly. "I love you."

Last photo of Mom.

My brothers and sisters and I reach for each other and hold on for dear life, hardly able to absorb the events of these past hours. We cry and cry around my mother's bed.

Father Kurtenbach gently makes the Sign of the Cross on Mom's head then quietly comforts Dad who still holds her hand. At last, he and Aunt Patty and MaryLee gather us together towards the door of the hospital room.

"Go," Father instructs us. "I'll stay with her."

With great effort, we pull ourselves together, and as Dad leads, we file out of the room one at a time. But before I step into the hall, I look back at the still form of my mother. Father Kurtenbach prays softly over her body.

And on the table beside her bed, the last Easter lily has finally bloomed.